


bomb pop.

by highwaytune



Series: Killjoys Concert AU [1]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Concert AU, Concerts, Gen, I have no idea how to tag this it's 4am, Tags Are Hard, The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25355362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highwaytune/pseuds/highwaytune
Summary: the four have a band, kinda.
Relationships: (kinda) - Relationship, Fun Ghoul & Jet Star & Kobra Kid & Party Poison (Danger Days), implied Fun Ghoul/Party Poison
Series: Killjoys Concert AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836169
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	bomb pop.

**Author's Note:**

> clarification! this isn't rpf, and none of my stuff is.  
> poison uses they/them in this but i had originally written it otherwise so if there's mistakes disregard.   
> also! thank you ruin for helping me change up party's name to avoid the confusion >:)  
> [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6qibIkIXbOKMJyULbFLvf9?si=LWCfE8SGRUGNV93VXqnCjA) is also a rough vibes-boiled-down playlist/setlist thing i threw together while writing this, so if you wanna listen to it please go ahead!

It’s no secret that these four musicians with the darkened faces and the neon lights illuminating what’s not obscured are just the zones-famous Fabulous Four, but there’s something addictive about seeing the blocky black letters scrawled in Sharpie on the concert posters. The band name’s never the same for long, but it’s usually pretty easy to tell when they’re playing. You can’t really tell someone that they’re your favorite band, since they change names like socks and they hardly ever show up at the same venue twice, but the thought is a nice one.  
  
Tonight’s setlist kicks off, and the microphones scream feedback across the crowd as the lead singer taps the microphone -- it’s go time. Obviously, it’s Party Poison, but nobody dares to call them that here. No, they’re just “Arc”, or whatever the concert poster has listed underneath the band’s billionth pseudonym. 

Their voice is the same as always, thick with years of zone dialect alongside the rasp gained from the occasional cigarette, but tonight there’s something electric that runs through the speakers. When they ask if the audience is ready, the crowd replies with a cry of delight, naturally, and the show fires up like setting off firecrackers. There’s no pauses, no dull moments, no awkward shuffling between songs. It’s just _move-move-move_ , ‘cause the energy doesn’t stop with these four.  
  
The first song is a fan-favorite, titled something with one too many exclamation points for some. It’s intense, with lyrics that rattle your teeth in your mouth and feedback that slices a clean wound through the wall of negative emotion that you’ve built in the past week. It lets you relax, better than anything you buy from the jittery rats with the shaky pupils in shady alleys.

The band itself is the most drug-like part of the concert, though. Once you set eyes on them, it’s hard to tear your gaze away from them.   
  
The lead singer is nicknamed Red, -- “please, just call me Red!” -- they’ll tell you, their technicolor hair sticking to their forehead with sweat and blood and tears and probably something else, and it would almost be the next fashion trend if they didn’t push it back so often. Their energy’s a powerful drug, surely. Swear, when they move across the stage, head tilted up towards the stage lights, some swear they see Arc’s boots leave the ground for a moment. Come to a concert in a shitty mood and a few seconds of their voice’ll take the edge off. Sometimes they’ll add some obscure instrument to a rare acoustic rendition of a fan favorite, tambourine or cowbell or something more like just rhythmically hitting a brake drum. They're a fantastic stage presence, wrapped in neons and ever-musical, even as they transition one song to the next. Sometimes they’ll reach down into the audience and grab the first poor soul they set eyes on, dragging them up onto the stage and wrapping the concertgoer up in the next song with them. It’s every fan’s wet dream, probably, to be in the front row, pulled out of the sea of people and moving so close to Arc. Though, it’d be hard for them to get anything done be it not for the other members of the band with no name.  
  
There’s C-4, who lends hypnotic backing vocals and rhythm guitar to the band. The explosives specialist Fun Ghoul disappears when he’s got his hands on the neck of his guitar, when he’s got his lips pressed to the microphone. Just because he’s not in the spotlight doesn’t mean he doesn’t steal it, though -- there’s an uncountable amount of instances of him getting a little too carried away in solos and letting the world melt away until he’s finished. His black hair whips around his head like a hurricane when he plays, hanging against his face and probably obscuring his vision, but he never seems to find it in himself to care. He’s a master of the sound he’s come to obsess over, cranking out sound that’s a hundred times taller than him and louder than God’s revolver, heavy and addictive like a rush from something nameless you took in a bathroom at an afterparty. He’s so good at what he does, with a stage presence rivaling Arc’s own. Their duets are _fucking legendary_ \-- they seem so in touch with each other that even making words up on the spot doesn’t seem like them just butting their horns together in an attempt to make something work.  
  
Supernova does lead guitar, and my _God_ if he’s not the best at what he does. The concept of Jet Star is not here in this place, because that’s _not_ Supernova. C-4 builds the walls of sound for Supernova to cut through expertly, maneuvering his way through them at lightning speed as his mass of curls slings beads of sweat onto his jacket. He’s a machine, a total monster when it comes to guitar, one that’ll shoot poison into your veins in the best way possible. His solos’ll make your blood turn to solid fucking gold; they fuel the very rebellion that shakes the earth and blows the sand into tall funnels. But Witch, if it wasn’t for his own vocals the band wouldn’t have made it past their first shows. He’s got the voice of an angel, and I don’t mean to exaggerate in any way. Because if you heard his voice when simply speaking, you’d hardly recognize it as the one that lends splendor to the nameless band whose concert you stumbled into stupid-drunk and left completely sober. He’s _just that good_ \-- absolutely perfect. His stage presence isn’t as flashy, but there’s not a shred of sex-appeal lost because of it. Even as he stands to the right, steadying himself on an amp, there’s hundreds of eyes fixed on him. Like I said, nobody’s really sure if he’s a hundred percent human -- could very well be a musical god sent down to bestow his wisdom onto the poor lost souls of the desert.   
  
Cyberia’s electric. Nobody’s really sure where that name even came from, but it fits his stage presence well enough. The ever-stoic Kobra Kid sheds his skin to become his nameless escape’s bassist. Heavy bass that makes you want to tip your head back and shout something -- that’s what he’s best at. Red leather’s typically forgotten in place of something racier that’s more holes than fabric, something a little less weather-appropriate for shows played late at night that end when the sun starts to come up. You’d almost forget he’s Arc’s brother, that is, until Arc and Cyberia come together for some fucked-up toe-to-toe, with bleach-blonde hair falling back toward the stage and Arc’s dye-stained hands wrapping around the microphone stand, and there’s nothing but _sound,_ spine-arching sound that makes you remember why you’re out here in the first place, and the lights make their profiles look nearly identical. Until, that is, he retires to his side of the stage again, subtly head-banging as he cranks out sound from the God-bestowed gift that’s his twice-as-shiny metallic bass guitar. He gets so absorbed, most of the time, that he looks straight-up demonic under the red lights. Witch, there’s a million stories of concert attendees taking a look at Cyberia’s manic expression halfway through a show and swearing he grew horns for a second.  
  
Drummers are a coveted guest spot. They don’t have one set drummer -- sure, a few regular guests, but nobody that’s ever around for more than two or three shows in a row. Tonight it’s a guy with long, dark hair and eyes that stare right into your soul. You swear you’ve seen his face someplace before, but you can’t put a name to it. As you turn to ask the friend you came here with, you’re met with a stranger instead who cannot hear you anyway. It’s fine -- you’ll probably remember it at some point.   
  
The sets usually end with something loud and hard and fast, something to keep you up on the drive home. They don’t believe in ending a concert on something slow and emotional, ‘cause where’s the fun in that? Where’s the adrenaline that’s supposed to come with concerts when you’re left sad by the absence of these four musicians pumping out music? There’s no hole left in your chest by something with slow instrumentals, because you’re too busy thinking about the small shit. The way Arc fished you out of the masses, the bright stage lights, the grin C-4 flashed you as you disappeared back into the crowd, the drum beat loud in your chest, Supernova’s eyes fixing on you for a split second, the roar of the audience, the sweat sliding down Cyberia’s face that smudged his eyeliner in the process. It’s all vivid and fresh in your mind for weeks, pulled back by faint guitar even when these four are not the ones playing. You don’t know if you’ll get the chance to attend another concert, because the dates are last-minute, but you’d be damned if anything came between you and a concert with these four in front of you.   
  
All good things, as the saying goes, must come to an end, though. When Arc finally bids you goodnight and the sun raises its bright little head over the hills and it’s finally time to head back to wherever you call home, the memory is planted in your brain like a seed that’ll shoot up into a tree by tomorrow. Sleep off the rest of the alcohol, flush out the drugs, ‘cause you’ll wanna be sober in case there’s another one tomorrow night.   
  
The band slips offstage, taking their equipment with one clean sweep as they pack it into the van they ~~stole from BLI~~ borrowed from Destroya knows where. Nights like these, the four go home under their pseudonyms and wake up as the Four. They share a celebratory drink as Arc, C-4, Supernova, and Cyberia, not as Party Poison, Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, and Kobra Kid. There’s no sigh of relief after they finish a set and wrap up to head home; it’s more of a sigh of disappointment at the fact that they have to lead something bigger than a concert now. There’s no rush of crowd-surfing or guitar solos when you’re risking your life, is there? Sort of, but not the same. So for now, fan-favorites and alter egos get to be their little not-so-secret guilty pleasure, and that’s the best goddamn part of being one of the Fab Four. Unapologetically clueless when asked about their performances, and yet so full of _everything_ when they’re onstage backed by bright neons. Totally fuckin' rad. Goodnight, crash queens.  


**Author's Note:**

> uhh i've been sitting on posting this for months, but it's my favorite piece ever and i finally got the courage to post it. please let me know what you think on my tumblr cherrikisser! i'd love to ramble about this au if you gave me the chance.


End file.
